


The White Lake

by phyripo



Series: We Were Here [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/F, Lakes, Legends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-05 21:38:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12197895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phyripo/pseuds/phyripo
Summary: The mysterious woman in white brings back the writer's inspiration, but at what cost?





	The White Lake

**Author's Note:**

> It all started when I was playing escape games (I love escape games if you have recommendations let me know) and one contained the phrase 'your memories belong to the lake now', which I thought was a very interesting sentence and basically, with some additional inspiration from the song [The Poet and The Muse by the 'Old Gods of Asgard'](https://youtu.be/GeSUvoY2oUk), spawned this story. It is set in the 1820s because why not!
> 
> You can also find it [on Tumblr](http://phyripowritesthings.tumblr.com/post/165986348375/i-read-the-sentence-your-memories-belong-to-the)!
> 
> FEATURING  
> Olympe - Monaco  
> Bela - Belarus (there is a reason she is not called Natalya this time!)  
> Francis - France

She came wearing white.

She was like a beacon, a specter on the lake, and perhaps she should have been fearsome, incited wariness, but she never did. Not in Olympe.

Olympe lived by the lake, the White Lake, up the slope of the mountain, her cottage nestled between the grey rocks and the evergreens. She wrote. When she didn’t write, she tended to her vegetable garden and wove, or went down to the town in the valley to sell the proceeds of those things on the bustling market, and she thought of what she would write.

Without a doubt, the townspeople thought her crazy – a woman alone in the woods? Not to mention the writing at all. It all wasn’t very ladylike of her. Olympe did not mind.

She minded, though, when her inspiration waned in autumn, when she needed it most. She had to find a new coat for the winter, among other things, and the vegetables were almost all harvested by now, so there would be no selling those. She sat wrapped up by the lake often, with her quill pen and her inkwell and a completely blank piece of paper that stayed that way. Even telling stories to the still water didn’t help.

And then there was _her_.

She showed up at Olympe’s door the morning after the first frost, like the ice come alive. Everything about her was pale but her eyes, which were instead dark blue like the lake.

“Who are you?” Olympe asked, mind running a mile a minute. This woman was not only mysterious, she was also beautiful, and it seemed to be that she brought some inspiration with her.

“I am here to help,” said the woman. “You can call me Bela.”

“As in beautiful?”

She smiled slowly, wickedly, showing teeth. “As in white.”

And, even though Olympe was not a very trusting person by nature, and all evidence screamed to be wary of Bela, she let her in.

Not just that once, as she had feared. The mysterious woman disappeared in the evening, yes, when the first moonlight reflected on the still water of the White Lake, but she returned the next day, and the next, and many – almost all – days after that. Olympe was curious – how could she not be curious about this woman who had brought her creativity back with her simple presence? – but she also had the distinct feeling she shouldn’t ask questions.

Did Bela have a home? Was she human at all? God knew there were plenty of legends about the mountains, hailing from the medieval times when the town in the valley had just been a small village, some from even earlier dates. Olympe had thought about compiling them in a book at some point, but never had come around to it.

It was perhaps foolish to be keeping on like this, but she didn’t care.

 

 

Even as winter set in, the mountains became bitterly cold and the lake froze over, Bela kept coming. She didn’t wear warmer clothes and didn’t want to borrow any off Olympe either, appearing unbothered. She read what Olympe wrote and, increasingly, offered her opinion. Bela was blunt and it made Olympe laugh sometimes just how different she was from her target audience in the cities, or indeed from herself, with her wealthy upbringing.

“This book doesn’t bear your name,” Bela said one dark afternoon, when she seemed the only light.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I am a woman. No one will want to read a book written by a woman.”

Bela was quiet. It really was as if she was from a different world altogether sometimes. But other times…

“Well, that’s stupid,” she said. Olympe laughed, and laughed more when Bela looked surprised, and pleased.

“The world is stupid,” Olympe said.

“You aren’t.”

She snapped her head up to look at Bela, who was actually looking less pale right now. Was she _blushing_? That was new. Olympe decided she liked it.

“You aren’t stupid either,” she replied.

Bela only shook her head, dark eyes downcast.

“I am very stupid,” she said cryptically. Before Olympe could push it, she had gone, just like that.

She didn’t think Bela was stupid. Quite the opposite, actually. It was true that the she didn’t know much about social interactions or the finer points of etiquette, and that she had no idea who the current ruler of the country was, but Bela could tell Olympe a great many things about the history of the mountains and their myths and legends, and knew nature in a way that seemed to be becoming increasingly rare.

And, yes, her white dresses were about 300 years out of fashion, all trailing sleeves and embroidered pearls and she never wore a hat, as if she were a woman of easy virtue, but that added to the mystery, and to the things that inspired Olympe to write yet more.

Bela knew much, but her knowledge seemed to stop past a certain point in history, much like her way of dressing did. Olympe had never met anyone like her, and didn’t think she ever would again.

Once, her cousin Francis came to visit her for a few days, and Bela didn’t show until he was gone.

“You could have greeted him,” Olympe said, not knowing how she would actually feel about _sharing_ Bela.

“He didn’t ask,” Bela replied, which made little sense, but Olympe decided to let it slide. She wondered, though; had _she_ asked somehow?

Later, she tried to ask Bela how she had known that Olympe needed help, needed a _muse_ , but, unsurprisingly, the woman only smiled ever so slightly and gave no reply at all. Olympe was not sure she would want to know, when it came down to it.

That was something else she wondered about, if that was all her, because she was a curious woman by nature, whether society liked it or not. It was unlike her to let things slide so often.

 

 

“Who are you?” she asked Bela again, one day in spring, as the tall woman was standing in the cold water of the White Lake, which pooled around her ankles and soaked the hem of her dress even though she had lifted it a little. She looked at Olympe with eyes as deep as the lake.

“Whoever you want me to be,” she eventually replied. Her voice seemed hoarser than it already tended to be usually.

“I want you to be yourself.”

Bela bowed her head so that her pale hair fell over her shoulders like rivulets of water and hid her face.

The water rippled around her bare feet but stayed otherwise still.

“Who do you want to be, Bela?”

Now, she looked up again.

“I want to be your inspiration,” she said matter-of-factly. Some unseen force rippled through the entire lake. Olympe thought she might understand.

“You are.”

Bela nodded sadly. “I know.”

 

 

With all the writing she had done lately, Olympe hardly had to sell her fabrics anymore, but she liked to interact with the townsfolk every now and then, so she went to the market anyway. Bela never wanted to come along, insisting the mountains were her home. There would be so much to show her, Olympe thought wistfully. And perhaps they could find her a more modern dress, one with a higher waistline and tighter sleeves and maybe a hat to match.

Not that Olympe disliked her mysterious muse’s hair. It was the opposite, in fact. Lately, however, she had been struck more and more often with the desire to run her fingers through it in a way that had little to do with seeking inspiration and everything with how fascinated – one might say _infatuated_ – Olympe was with her as a person, something that she saw more of every day.

Maybe, she thought, Bela never had been _herself_ before and somehow Olympe was her inspiration too, in a much more profound way. She liked thinking that, because she couldn’t actually tell if she was worth as much to her at all.

And so summer rolled into the mountains with the scent of drying grass and wildflowers, and Bela’s eyes seemed to brighten with the sun even as her skin remained pale. They spent a lot of time by the lake, sometimes talking, sometimes silent but for the scratch of Olympe’s quill pen.

One day, Bela said, à propos of nothing, “I have done many bad things.”

Olympe carefully put her quill away and turned to look at her expectantly. Bela just looked out over the lake, her silhouette sharp in the sunlight.

“I have never felt remorse until now.”

“How so?”

Bela looked at her with one light eye.

“I never cared before.”

Warmth blossomed in Olympe’s chest. Much as she wished the circumstances were different, it was good to know that Bela cared in her own way. She didn’t ask what it was she felt remorse over, feeling she would not like the answer, provided she received one at all. Instead, she just put her hand, which looked tiny, softly over hers. Bela breathed steadily. Her skin was cool, but warmed under Olympe’s fingers.

They sat like that for a long time. Eventually, Bela turned her hand over and entwined their fingers.

 

 

Long hair whipping in the October wind, Bela walked along the edge of the White Lake. Olympe thought it looked like she was searching for something, but had no idea what it would be, or she would help.

As it were, she could only watch the lone, distant figure in white through her lorgnette, and wait.

After a while, Bela strode up to her cottage, hair wild and eyes dark. Olympe didn’t expect to say anything about what she had been doing, and she didn’t, but what she did do was far more surprising than that. The tall woman dropped to her knees, dress pooling around her, and looked up at Olympe with an indefinable emotion on her face.

“Bela, what is…” She gestured vaguely. “Are you alright?”

“I wish…” Bela started, reaching her hand up as if she wanted to touch Olympe, then letting it fall.

Slowly, almost afraid of startling her, Olympe mirrored her, sinking to her knees. She reached out with caution and wrapped both hands around the one Bela was holding in her lap now. She didn’t speak. She waited.

“I wish I could be more,” Bela eventually said. Her voice was barely audible over the wind that howled around the house.

“You are enough,” Olympe replied. This was true in many ways. She gripped her hand tighter, hoping to impart this message without words. Bela’s eyes were deep and sad. Olympe could almost see herself reflected in them, a small woman in blue with a tight braid, so different from her muse.

“You are more.” It didn’t sound accusing, or jealous. It sounded almost admiring.

“I do not think I am so much,” Olympe said bashfully, lowering her gaze. Bela put her free hand on hers, her fingertips ever so gently stroking Olympe’s wrist. Her next words were barely more than breath.

“Olympe, you are everything.”

When she looked up, Bela was closer than before, and it was all Olympe could do not to gasp. Instead, she followed her instincts, pushed up, and pressed her forehead against Bela’s gently. Her skin was cold; it always seemed to be. Nevertheless, she breathed warm on Olympe’s neck, steady and reassuringly _there_.

“Please stay,” Olympe heard herself say. “Please.”

“As long as I can,” Bela promised.

 

 

Finally, Olympe could indulge the need she felt to run her fingers through Bela’s long, loose hair, or let her know in other, small ways how she felt about her. Nobody could ever know about this, of course, but most people did not care much for what Olympe did either way. It was good.

And then it ended.

It was the night of the new moon. Olympe jerked awake for reasons unknown in the very early morning – it was silent outside, and still practically pitch dark. Yet, after a brief disoriented moment, she rose from her bed and padded to the window, grabbing her lorgnette on the way. She didn’t expect to see anything.

Maybe the more accurate word, she thought, would be _hope_. She hoped she would not see anything out of the ordinary.

But, no, there she was, truly looking like a supernatural being this time, a spot of light against the darkness of the lake. Bela, walking into the water every so calmly, barely disturbing its surface. It didn’t seem as though she was looking for something this time – more as though she knew exactly what she was doing. But that made no _sense_. Granted, many things about her didn’t make sense, but this was truly something else.

Olympe wanted to run outside, but was also afraid of losing sight of her muse for even a second, afraid that she would simply disappear. Indecision and fear paralyzed her.

So she watched, unmoving. Frozen as the edges of the lake, still like the mist over the water. Was that all her?

The very first ray of sunlight falling through the evergreens illuminated Bela in blinding white, and when Olympe blinked, she was gone. The water was still as if she had never been there.

Had she?

Was it a dream?

 

 

Olympe called out for Bela in the morning when she didn’t show, walking around the lake with chattering teeth, pressing her lorgnette to her nose as if she could see more that way. It yielded no results. Not a single hint towards the mysterious woman’s presence. The lake was dark, and remained so when Olympe glared at it, yelled and pleaded at the water. It had given her so much… And it had taken everything.

So she wrote, and wrote, and wrote as if it were her final day every day for the lonely next month. She wrote a letter to Francis, asking him to come visit in the approaching spring and to take her manuscripts with him so they may be made into books. But mostly, she wrote about Bela, and about the hateful White Lake. She wrote until she ran out of ink and her fingers cramped and even her lorgnette could not help her see clearly.

It had to be done. Olympe couldn’t say why.

And then, that too ended.

All at once, the new moon was back. The day before had brought a storm that could still be heard in the distance, but the mountains were quiet around her cottage. The lake was still. The lake was foreboding, Olympe thought. She’d thought so many times.

 

 

She came wearing black.

At first, Olympe thought she was a dream – a nightmare, perhaps. Everything about her was pale but her eyes and her dress, which were both dark as the night reflected in the water of the White Lake.

“Bela,” Olympe breathed, sitting up in her bed. The woman simply nodded. She dripped on Olympe’s floor, the water like an ink stain in the near-darkness.

She looked away when Olympe tried to catch her eye, and walked to the door when she got out of her bed, tried to reach for her. Olympe followed, somehow unsurprised yet still terrified of what was to come.

Bela stood at the edge of the lake on bare feet, her black dress floating around her calves. Her back was turned to Olympe, but she could still see that her hands were clenched in tight fists.

“Who are you?” Olympe asked. Bela looked at her over her shoulder, wet hair plastered to her forehead. A hint of a smile flitted over her sharp features, but it was a sad one.

“Bela, as in white,” she reminded Olympe. The water of the White Lake rippled out from her feet. Olympe swallowed. She wished she could say something that meant something, but her mind was blank.

“You helped me,” she just said.

“Yes.” Bela waded deeper into the water. Olympe followed her to where the shore became rocky and plunged straight into the deep. It was unwise, she knew that.

“Is there no way for you to stay with me?” she asked. Her own hair fell across her shoulders when she knelt on the rocks, touching her fingers to the freezing stone.

Bela shook her head. “You must understand. The lake demands payment.”

“The lake, or you?”

She raised a hand above the water and ran her fingers through Olympe’s hair, swept her cold thumb over her cheekbone. She didn’t answer the question, but, as with so many things Olympe had asked her, she wasn’t sure whether she really wanted to know the answer. She leaned farther forwards, cupping her own hands around Bela’s face.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. She clutched the fabric of Olympe’s nightgown with her free hand, the grip nothing short of desperate.

“I know.”

“Your memories belong to the lake now.”

Olympe reached forward and forward and _forward_ to kiss her, and the water closed over their heads.

**Author's Note:**

> _Now, if it's real or just a dream, one mystery remains_   
>  _For it is said, on moonless nights_   
>  _They may still haunt this place..._


End file.
